


Sauce for the Gander

by fyredancer



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, PWP, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyredancer/pseuds/fyredancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill finally figures out why Tom is always at his elbow, shoving food in his direction, and the results AREN'T PRETTY.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sauce for the Gander

**Author's Note:**

> Too much crack and sex for a fluff fic? IDK, I fail! *starts signing up for Smut Saturdays instead* Thanks to super beta, kishmet!

It took Bill a while to figure out that something was afoot. It wasn't terribly out of the norm for Tom to cater to his whims even before he thought of them, after all.

Every time Bill turned around, Tom was standing there with a sandwich. Or a piece of fruit, or bag of gummy candies, or a slice of pizza, or a breakfast pastry, or some other edible that he knew Bill was partial to, or would at least put in his mouth. Bill would happily accept, scarf it down, and barely notice when twenty minutes later, he was turning around to be confronted with another piece of food.

During the album and calendar photo shoot, Tom got up early to make waffle mix, going so far as to bring it and their waffle iron to the studio. Bill turned from rack upon rack of clothes and other oddments and came face to face with a stack of warm, crisp waffles, the heart-shaped ones he loved – he'd bought Tom that waffle iron – complete with powdered sugar on top.

"Mmm, thank you," Bill said, and seized the plate of waffles, which Tom had obligingly pre-cut so that Bill could fork them into his mouth and keep wandering around cataloguing the clothes he'd lay out for the day.

At Heathrow, Tom handed him a huge bag of gummies while they were waiting in line with their boarding passes.

"Thanks," Bill said absently, and grabbed it. Tom had considerately already torn it open for him at one corner so Bill wouldn't have to go at it with his freshly-done nails. As the camera followed him around during his jaunt around the airport, Bill found he'd polished the bag off before he even got back to the others where he'd left them at the terminal. Tom was waiting for him with a rum and coke and some sort of bagel construction.

In Africa, Tom came back from a foray for sweets and waved an enormous sandwich in his direction when they stopped at the petrol station.

Bill was pretty sure he didn't even say thank you, that time; he snatched it and went for it with both hands as though he hadn't finished doughnuts twenty minutes before while everyone else napped in the car. The sandwich had even been left easily accessible, the paper at one end folded down for ready consumption. Tom was thoughtful like that.

At their birthday party, they weren't two steps off their third rollercoaster ride before Tom was shoving a giant slice of pizza in his direction. 

Bill thought nothing of it, wolfing it down in several bites while someone, probably his mother, made retching noises somewhere beyond the range of the camera mic. It was business as usual because Tom was basically doing the same thing, holding a slice between his teeth while he finished tugging down his makeshift transparent poncho.

It was the plate of sausages that finally did it. Bill had finished with the great but not plentiful room service in France as he dawdled over breakfast with his brother, the only time alone they'd have together all day, when Tom pushed a plateful of sausages across the table at him. Both their plates were bare and Tom had forked over the last of his sausage, which he was now offering to Bill. 

Tom was voluntarily giving up food that had been on his own plate.

"Oh my God!" Bill cried out, as he clued in at last. "You're trying to fatten me up, aren't you!?"

Tom's wide-eyed stare was close enough to the expression he used to mask guilt that Bill took it as such. He shoved the plate of sausages from him as though they were rat poison, ran for the bathroom, and locked himself in.

"Bill!" Tom called out, running after him. "Bill, what the hell!?"

"That's my line!" Bill yelled through the door, checking the mirror for signs of face fat and running his hands over his hipbones and ribs to make sure he could still feel them. "Do you want me to have chipmunk cheeks again, Tom? Do you!?"

"Whu..." Tom began, and sputtered his way through the start of several sentences before saying at last, "It's a few sausages, Bill! Come on--" He tried the door, found it locked, and cursed under his breath.

"It's a few sausages, Bill," Bill mimicked, deepening his voice and speaking from the back of his throat, sounding exactly like Tom. He turned in fright from the door and did another quick mirror check to make sure he was still _himself._ Then he ran a frantic hand over his flat tummy. "Then I swell up like a piggy!" He remembered earlier that summer, and Tom telling Chantelle that they were vegetarians to see where and how fast that information leaked, and almost laughed until he remembered he was mad at Tom, mad.

"Open the door or I'll kick it in," Tom warned him.

Bill squealed and danced back, terrified for his beautiful nose if a door should burst open and hit it, then he reminded himself that Tom was all talk. "No, I'm afraid you'll stuff me with your sausage!"

"Only if you ask nicely," Tom muttered.

"Jesus, Tom, it's not like we have time for that," Bill said, suddenly shocked, or at least pretending to be. He widened his eyes at himself at the mirror, then leaned forward and checked his teeth for stray bits of breakfast, ultimately deciding to brush his teeth as long as he was locked in there.

"Come on, open up," Tom wheedled, kicking the door.

Bill made a noise that got stuck between a snigger and a moan, and then he hiccuped pitifully. "That's what you said last night," he observed, then braced himself against the sink as he cackled.

"And you did then, so I don't see why you won't now," Tom said, in what he clearly thought was his most suave and persuasive voice.

"I'm going to text someone for help," Bill threatened. "My twin brother's trying to force feed me because he's a chubby chaser. Eww, you really did like Chantelle, didn't you!? Tom! You told me you were taking one for the team!"

"That's disgusting, Bill!" Tom exclaimed, and his shoe thumped against the door harder than before. "Your phone's out here, you know."

"Oh," Bill said, crestfallen. He grabbed his toothbrush and ran it under the sink. "Shit."

"Just come out here, and let me see you," Tom said through the door, slumped against it by the sound of it.

"Why?" Bill sniffed. "So you can see if I'm plump enough for the slaughter?"

"Now you're just being stupid," Tom informed him.

"Well, why are you always feeding me?" Bill wanted to know. He wasn't coming out of the bathroom until Tom confessed. Someone would come looking for him sooner or later. They had to; he was a good three-fourths of Tokio Hotel.

"Because you need the calories!" Tom cried out, sounding immensely frustrated. 

Bill blinked. "That's it? That's why?"

"Yeah," Tom said, and something thumped against the door, probably his head given the placement of the noise.

"That's _all_?" Bill prodded, unconvinced. He squeezed toothpaste over the bristles of his brush and began to brush his teeth.

"Bill," Tom whined, thumping his head against the door again. "I've done the math, you know. I did that online nutritional course when I was looking to add ten pounds of muscle, remember? So I did a food budget for me if I wanted to gain muscle, and I did a food budget for you to maintain the weight you had at your last physical, and factored in the amount of exercise you get from the average frequency of our sex and the way you run around like a three-year old hopped up on rock sugar--"

"Ugh, shut up," Bill said at last. He finished with his teeth, rinsed, and spat in the sink. "I don't need to hear that level of detail. Please. You actually made a food budget for me?"

"Well. Uh. Yeah," Tom said through the door. "That's not weird, right? You have trouble keeping up your weight to begin with no matter how much junk food we eat; I don't want those shitty anorexia rumors to start up again."

"So the food budget is based on how often we have sex, hmm?" Bill said, picking out one thing that had caught his attention.

"Um," Tom said. 

"It's okay, you can tell me," Bill wheedled.

"I'd be feeding you less if we weren't doing it so much, yeah," Tom admitted at last. "We've...been doing it a lot, so I've been feeding you more. Or, you know. I'll feed you extra if I plan on having you later." That last bit was muttered under his breath, but Bill still heard it.

"Oh," Bill said brightly, going to the door and unlocking it at last. He whipped the door open and Tom stumbled, falling against him. "You're feeding me to make sure I've got enough oomph for sex? That's..."

"Sick, I know, it's sick," Tom groaned against his shoulder. "And very self-serving."

Bill tilted him a puzzled look and hooked his hands under Tom's armpits, pulling him upright and smooshing their noses together. "It's thoughtful. And foresighted, did I mention foresighted?" He grinned widely and rubbed his nose against Tom's when his brother melted against him with relief. "It's also really convenient for me. All I have to do is turn around and whoosh! There's Tom, with food for me. But I think maybe you're a nymphomaniac."

Tom groaned again. "I think you don't know what that means."

"Sure I do," Bill said, sneaking a hand down to his brother's pants. They were always so loose, he could push his fingers in past the buckle easily. "It means you want my ass all the time."

"But I'm not a girl," Tom protested.

Bill sniggered.

"Shut up, Bill," Tom muttered, pushing his face into Bill's neck and grabbing his ass with both hands. "Just because I like missionary best."

"And low lights," Bill added, kissing Tom's ear.

"You said it was romantic," Tom said in a sulky tone.

"It is!" Bill said quickly. Most of the time, he added in his thoughts. Sometimes he just wanted to fuck. Get fucked.

Tom groped him again and Bill moaned, nipping his brother's ear and pushing into his groin. Tom breathed against his neck hotly, "Do you want to--"

"Cuddle," Bill filled in the blank hastily.

Tom pulled back far enough to give him an incredulous look.

Bill stuck his lower lip out. "We've got time to cuddle," he said. "I don't think we've got time for anything more."

"Text Dunja and tell her to let their people know we're going to be a little late," Tom suggested.

"Tom," Bill whined, pushing against his twin's shoulder.

"I want to suck your cock," Tom said, and the words sent a bolt of pure pleasure down Bill's spine and warmed the base of his tummy.

"Um..." Bill prevaricated. His eyes fluttered and he licked his lower lip, clinking his tongue stud against his teeth. "I want you to suck my cock, too."

"So what's the problem?" Tom questioned.

"Interview," Bill moaned, but it didn't sound like a 'no,' or maybe not a firm enough one, because Tom groped him again, then pressed the ridge at the front of his jeans alongside Bill's. "Okay, okay, find my phone."

Tom reached into Bill's back pocket, which did not take much of a stretch since he was pretty much already in there, and handed the phone to him.

"You bastard!" Bill exclaimed. "You said it was out there!"

"I lied," Tom shrugged, looking about as guilty as he did when he told a whopper during one of their many interviews; in other words, not at all. "Are we still on?"

Bill stowed his phone without even glancing at it. "Prick. We're going to be late."

"But I'll die if I can't have you," Tom said, and Bill rolled his eyes even as he couldn't help but shiver a little.

"That might have worked five years ago when you first wanted to put it in me," Bill began, whimpering as Tom massaged his butt with both hands, "...stop that!...but I'm older and wiser to your ways now."

His phone vibrated and Tom's chirped, and Bill pulled his out when it seemed pretty certain Tom wasn't going to detach himself without Bill using either main force or a crowbar on him.

"Shit," he said softly but with feeling, after he read the text. This had the potential to screw up the whole day.

"What is it?" Tom stroked his back.

"Schedule mix-up. They're trying to rearrange, but our first got bumped back by an hour." Bill closed his phone and tossed it onto the counter, equal parts annoyed and horny. Even if he'd been about to tell Tom no, it didn't mean he didn't _want_ to.

"So we don't need to go downstairs in twenty?" Tom said hopefully.

"No," Bill said, and ran his tongue down Tom's neck from his ear to his collarbone. "Now we've got an hour." He grabbed Tom's butt and his brother squealed.

"Stop, no," Tom said. "You were right, Bill. We should just cuddle." He pulled back far enough to present Bill with the sight of earnest brown eyes and a hopeful smile.

He almost had Bill, too, before the tip of his tongue poked out the one side of his mouth.

"Okay," Bill said, dipping his head to hide his own curling, mischievous smile. "Let's see how _he_ feels about it." He lifted Tom's shirt up and tugged at his belt; his brother's jeans were already riding low enough for him to divine Big Tom's reaction to their preliminaries.

"Don't touch him, he's sensitive!" Tom whined, slapping at his hands as Bill delved into his boxers. "That's not a sausage!"

"Well, I don't want sausage anymore," Bill said, and cast a heated look at Tom through his lashes. "You could still give me something nutritious, though."

Tom looked at him, and Bill rubbed his hand low over Tom's stomach. Their lips quirked simultaneously and they both cracked up, clutching at each other's shoulders and howling. It was hilarious for maybe a minute and they laughed accordingly, until Tom's cock poked at Bill's navel through his shirt.

"Don't. Stop that," Bill told his twin, annoyed. "I don't want your junk all over my shirt; you'll ruin it and I'm wearing it to the interview later."

"Let's take it off," Tom suggested.

"Then you'll feed me your cock?" Bill said hopefully.

"Later," Tom told him. "I want to suck yours."

"Mmm, okay."

Bill triple-checked the door locks while Tom made sure of the blinds and the drapes. It only took a few moments for Bill to strip off his layered jewelry, then his sweet new faux-leather shirt, but he left the blue skinny jeans on because he liked to make Tom work for it, a little. The last thing Bill ever wanted was to come across as easy even if he wouldn't have sex with anyone but Tom.

At the end of the bed Bill sat and Tom knelt at his fly and stripped his jeans down just far enough to get his mouth on him. Bill leaned back on his hands and moaned appreciation as Tom went to town, licking and sucking and nuzzling as though it were the best he'd ever had, which he pulled off every now and then to assure Bill that it was.

People made assumptions about Bill because of his tongue stud - the filth Bushido had spouted about him still pissed Bill off to think about it. In actuality, Tom was the one who had the insatiable oral fixation, of the two of them.

Tom nursed at his cock until Bill tugged at his braids and demanded more. He then removed Bill's boots and stripped off his jeans and got on him again, kneeling between Bill's legs and sucking him into his mouth right away.

His mouth was hot and wet and devoted. Bill tossed his head and moaned eagerly, tugging at Tom's ears to urge him on when the heat of his mouth had Bill warmed up for other, better things.

Tom resisted the pull and hummed an inquiring note while his mouth was still stretched wide around Bill.

"Dirty trick," Bill groaned, thrusting up.

Tom pulled off him. "Not if it's getting you off," he said with a cheeky grin. He kissed the tip, swirled his tongue at the head to gather in Bill's pre-come again and again, then opened his mouth to take Bill between his lips once more.

"Nng," Bill vocalized, clamping his thighs around Tom's head, then releasing. "I want more now; I want you inside me."

Tom's eyes widened as he resumed lapping at the head of Bill's cock. "More?"

"Inside," Bill insisted. "Put it in me."

Tom's eyebrows performed the facial equivalent of a shrug, and he resumed going down on Bill.

Bill whined and arched his hips up, then Tom pressed one slick finger into him and he subsided, happy for all of a minute. All Tom was doing was finger-fucking him with one nicely-calloused index finger while he continued to slurp away at Bill's cock, bringing him ever closer to the edge.

"Tom, _in_ me," Bill insisted, when Tom kept up the infuriatingly steady regimen of cocksucking.

"Mm-hmm," Tom mumbled around his dick, and from somewhere the sound of lube uncapping was loud to Bill's very alert ears.

The first finger was joined by a second.

Bill groaned and laid back, letting Tom do as he liked. He was playing search for Bill's prostate, and that was a game Bill liked better than almost any other. The sole exception being, of course, the game of how often Tom's dick could nail Bill's prostate. Which reminded him...

"Tom," Bill said hoarsely, "I'm going to come in your _eye_ if you don't put it in me soon."

Tom laughed at him, and before Bill could curse him out for being a heartless bastard and impugn his own mother, too, his twin was tipping him further onto his back, grabbing a hapless pillow and tucking it behind Bill's tail bone. This brought nothing but vigorous cooperation from Bill.

"Put what in you?" Tom inquired innocently. "This?" He bent over Bill, pushing his spread legs up and breathing hotly over his slicked-up hole.

"Oh," Bill said, going red. For a moment he wasn't sure Tom was going to do it; he didn't do it often, and when he did, he usually fucked Bill so hard afterward that Bill walked funny for at least a day, and Tom would make twice as many comments about having lots of hot women in interviews as though it had been a blow to his asserted masculinity.

Then Tom's tongue touched him, wetter and so much hotter than the lube, and Bill cried out and bit down on his lip hard. He grabbed at the duvet and writhed as Tom licked all around his hole, so thoroughly it made Bill's hips jerk up involuntarily.

"Fuck," Bill said, then again simply because he liked the way it sounded. "Fuck, oh, oh, that's so good..." Tom had his mouth _there_ , where he was about to put his cock and make them both feel so good; Tom was eating him out, and Bill was in bliss and trying to figure out what delightful game _this_ was. Tongue Bill until he was panting as though he was in heat, he decided, and squeezed his legs together and cried out as Tom licked _inside_ of him.

Be careful what you ask for, the giddy thought occurred to him. Tom was _in_ him, after all. But it wasn't quite everything he wanted.

Bill tossed his head, licked his lips. He was sweating. It was so good, but they didn't have time to fool around for an hour or more and he was going to have to touch up his makeup when they were done, for sure. "Stop...stop licking me out and fuck me!" he burst out at last.

Tom's mouth squirmed around Bill's crease, forming a tangible smile.

"You could ask nicely," Tom said, but he was swinging up and hovering over Bill, skimming his shirt off and kicking out of his jeans and boxers in quick, impatient motions.

"You'd like for me to beg, wouldn't you," Bill retorted.

A brief squiggle of thought swam through Bill's sex-crazed conscious; they were due at an interview shortly, and he should make Tom wear a condom if they were going to do anal. Then Tom was crowding up against Bill's upraised legs and he was holding his hard, red cock in one hand and pushing his foreskin down over the shiny, pre-come slicked tip and it was going _in_ Bill.

"Yes, yes, yes," were the only words that Bill could come up with.

Tom was already looking orgasmic as he guided himself down into Bill's cleft. He pushed, getting the head inside, then hooked his arms under Bill's legs and worked himself in with gentle, inexorable thrusts that went from shallow to intense in short order.

"You feel so good in me," Bill whispered, raising his legs and wrapping them around Tom.

The words were like the touch that unraveled Tom. Mouth open, he loomed over Bill and bent him in half, lunging into him and riding him up the bed.

"Fuck!" they both cried out, and Bill fought to keep his eyes open as Tom did it again, and again. Tom had Bill bent so steeply that he wasn't hitting so much as dragging along Bill's prostate in a tortuously brilliant ride.

"Tom," Bill whimpered, in a way that could have meant more, or harder, or faster, but Tom somehow always knew which one.

Tom grabbed his hips, rocked Bill against him hard, and went to town on Bill's little ass.

"Oh...fuck...oh God!" Bill cried out, reaching out for leverage but unsure if he wanted it. Tom was already pounding into him in rough, sloppy strokes, raw and hard enough that Bill was tingling and he knew he'd feel it hours later.

Tom fucked against his prostate until Bill came without so much as a hand on him, screaming hoarsely, jetting ropes of come up against Tom's bare chest and stomach. Tom rutted into Bill a moment longer, then held himself there, pressed hard against Bill and spreading his ass as he pulsed inside him, groaning loud and long.

"Oh," Bill moaned, a little disturbed by the weak flutter of his own voice. "Oh, oh. Yes, Tom, it's so good." His cock twitched weakly as Tom finished deep within him.

Tom pulled out and collapsed beside him onto one elbow, eyes half-lidded, wearing that sweet stupid look he got when he'd banged him so well.

"Gotta shower," Bill gasped, reeling drunkenly as he got off the bed. Only Tom's quick scramble to set hands on his waist and shoulder kept him from toppling over. "Shit. Which way is the bathroom?"

"We don't have time, Bill," Tom said, sounding frantic. "Hurry up, throw your clothes back on!"

"I can't just _throw..._ " Bill began, and focused on the bedside alarm clock after three tries. "Oh, shit!"

He threw his clothes on.

They made it to the interview on time, but Bill spent the entire segment wishing he'd stopped by at least to make use of the bidet.

"Why did you shove your ass in Gustav's face when you got up?" Tom asked curiously, when they were alone in the elevator after their bandmates had opted to have a few drinks at the hotel bar without them.

"I was wobbly," Bill said defensively, elbowing Tom in the ribs. "It's your fault for doing such a thorough job, you know. Gustav likes it; it's one of his perks. And did I imagine it, or did you..."

"You don't want to know," Tom said, biting his lip and basically confirming the fact that he'd checked Bill's vacated chair for trace evidence. 

Bill had sensed that interview going horribly wrong, and not due to the questions or any other...very visible factors.

"Damn it!" Bill burst out, hands dropping to the seat of his jeans to cover his butt. "I knew I should have made you use a condom." He groaned and leaned against the rear of the elevator.

"Bill," Tom said, in that wheedling tone.

"No more sausage," Bill sulked.

Tom wrinkled his nose. "Well, I was going to order room service, but if you're not up for it..."

"Room service is fine!" Bill said quickly. His stomach gurgled excitement and he put a guilty hand over it, looking at Tom with wide eyes.

"It's okay, baby," Tom said, putting a hand near Bill's and petting the flatness of his stomach as he spoke apparently to Bill's appetite. "We'll take care of you soon."

"Sounds like a plan," Bill said, and pushed Tom's hand lower. "And if you do a good enough job, you can take care of this again, too." But he wasn't letting Tom anywhere near his ass.

The elevator got closer to their floor and they sidled apart, giving one another sheepish secretive grins.

Well, maybe if Tom was particularly good.

A week later they were in bed at some other hotel, in some other town – if Bill asked, one of their assistants could probably tell him where – and they tuned in to a program Dunja had told them they'd better not watch.

Alexander Gernandt of Bravo spent several minutes waxing eloquent on a subject he knew very little about; Bill's appearance and what it meant for his health. He guessed Bill's dress size at a men's size zero, and appeared solemnly concerned that Bill's weight was down so much when they'd spent so much time 'on break.'

"We were never on a break!" Bill screamed at the TV, because hadn't he said in every damned interview that they'd never stopped working? About the only things he and Tom ever did were work, fuck, and walk the dogs.

"Calm down," Tom advised, sitting beside him and making the bed dip. He handed Bill a piece of cake wrapped in a napkin.

Bill accepted it and nibbled disconsolately as he watched Gernandt continue to 'worry' about Bill's weight as though it could sink the album release.

"That fucker," Bill said, chucking his remote at the television and Gernandt's face. "He hasn't even seen me in person in ages. See if I ever give Bravo another interview as long as he still works for them."

"Well," Tom said, putting his hand on Bill's very prominent hipbone. "I tried. Look at it this way...at least he thought it was stress?"

Bill nuzzled up against him, weaving his fingers through Tom's cornrows. "I guess we're going to have to cut down on the sex," he said, and shoved the last of his cake in his mouth.

"Wait, what?" Tom said, sounding very concerned. "No, no! I can feed you more, I swear. I don't quite know how, but...I'll figure out a way..."

Bill giggled madly, licked at his fingers with deliberation, and counted the seconds before Tom figured out he was joking.

Tom narrowed his eyes, grunted at him, and tipped him back onto the mound of pillows. "I'll give you something to eat."

Bill cooperated enthusiastically. And wondered if Tom had calculated _that_ particular caloric value. He'd ask...but, later.

+end+

**IT WAS THIS INTERVIEW, I DID NOT MAKE IT UP:**

[](http://s3.photobucket.com/albums/y67/Fyredancer0/Twin%20Picspam/?action=view&current=bill_gif51.gif)


End file.
